The man's smirk widens as he surveys the shop, his gaze landing on the blacksmith behind the counter. "So this is the place?" he says, his voice dripping with disdain. "Someone told me you had good weapons here, but I'm not seeing anything impressive. This shop is just straight up trash."
The blacksmith doesn't respond immediately, simply continuing to polish the sword in his hand as if the man's words hadn't even reached him. "No one is forcing you to buy my wares, young man," he says calmly, his voice steady and entirely unbothered.
The young man's smirk vanishes, replaced by a flash of anger. He steps closer to the counter, his posture growing more aggressive. "You think you can talk to me like that, you decrepit old dog?" His hand tightens on the hilt of his sword, as if the mere suggestion of defiance is enough to provoke him to take the old man's life. "I could buy and sell this entire dump without breaking a sweat. So, how about you show a little respect?"
